It finally feels as if the long, gruelling winter is behind us. Today the sky is an infinite blue, and although it was still bitterly cold before sunrise the temperature has been rising ever since. I've seen the bees going in and out of the tiny snowdrops. The daffodils are out. The geese are finally laying their majestic white eggs again.

Suddenly everything looks different – what appeared dead only a few weeks ago is now performing a slow-motion explosion. The paths through the woods are peppered with primroses. The green points of the arum lilies are beginning to poke through. The ground, mud-brown last time I looked, is covered with the incredible, large red dots of the scarlet elf cup fungi. They grow on damp, dead sticks and we've got plenty of those around here.

Although we've had a couple of hardy people camping in January and February, it's now a more mainstream option. So we put down sheep fleeces and a sofa bed in the bell tent. And you can tell it's getting just a tiny bit warmer because the earthen floor we made months ago – that great mix of clay, manure, sand and straw – is finally dry. It looks beautiful and you can see the flecks of chopped straw in the hard, dark clay. I'm not sure, though, that I'll try it again. There's obviously a reason why such floors are more common in Africa and central America rather than in Somerset: it needs a hot climate to dry, and if, lacking that, you need a dehumidifier on it for months, it rather detracts from the floor's eco credentials.

Every available windowsill in the house now has seed trays full of tomatoes, chard, peppers, chillies, spinach, broccoli, aubergines and all the rest. The shallots are in and the seed potatoes are chitting. Rhubarb leaves are unfurling on the end of their fat red stalks. We've bought half a dozen scaffolding planks to make two more large raised beds.

What interests me is how every season brings its own issues to resolve. Who, for example, should pay for all the seeds and associated costs of growing our own? At the moment we all pay for food here by putting 30 quid a week into a communal kitty. Kids put in half that. If someone can't afford it they don't have to contribute and we manage to get by. We eat, I reckon, pretty well. On the rare occasions that we have a surplus at the end of the week, the money goes into a surplus tin to pay for, for example, chicken feed.

But now we're debating whether it's fair to take the money for seeds and so on out of the kitty. Some say definitely not; others say yes, absolutely. Is it fair that someone here in March pays for something we won't harvest until the summer? And what about if that person in March is eating the chutney or honey that were the fruits of last year's labours? And who should pay for the air-rifle pellets thanks to which we'll have plenty of rabbit, wood pigeon and squirrel? And the baker's fondant with which we feed the bees? Everyone loves our honey, so should we all share the costs as well as the benefits?

In a way they should be easy questions to answer: it's cheaper to buy seeds, pellets and fondant than veg, meat and honey in the shops, so if we all chip in we'll all save. But people have different means, tastes and commitment. Are vegetarians exempt from pellet costs? And those who don't like kale or chard? I don't know when our much-craved simplicity became so complicated.

Much as we all yearn for fairness, I'm afraid that being fixated on it can be counterproductive. If you have rotas for everything, and if you constantly quibble about pennies, you quickly eradicate goodwill and spontaneity. Everything can become institutionalised and you lose sight of the fact that we're trying to help each other, rather than just ourselves. The bottom line is that someone needs to say: "This is how it's going to work, so let's get on with it." It's a question of leadership – but that's a thorny issue for another day.